


Recovery One

by ToukoTai



Series: First Name: Agent [10]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Red vs. Blue, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, if that someone just so happens to be a paranoid survivor of an experimental military project, so much the better amirite?, someone needs to benefit from Washington's mental trauma, the road of recovery is always better when you have someone to lean on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 02:10:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2251926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToukoTai/pseuds/ToukoTai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recovery One doesn’t judge, doesn’t talk more then he needs to, doesn’t do anything but his job. And his job is to guard the Winter Soldier.</p><p>Crossposted from tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recovery One

**Author's Note:**

> Prior knowledge of Red vs Blue or at least the Project Freelancer part is highly suggested. There will be a lot of things that are hinted at but not fully explained. Case in point: Agent Washington.  
> Project Freelancer has been adapted to a more present day setting.

The Winter Soldier wakes to the beeping sound of a heart monitor, the feel of soft restraints around his arm and ankles, the antiseptic smell of a hospital or medical wing in his nose and the sound of someone turning the pages of a book. He keeps his eyes closed, tries to get all the information he can before he gives away that he’s awake.

The soft shackles are firm and unrelenting, around his wrist and ankles. He also notes with a bit of alarm that his arm has been removed. This will make things harder. He feels a bit muddy in the head, but other then that, nothing else. He turns his attention to the room at large. Beyond the steady beep of the heart monitor, he listens to the other person in the room. Unless the second person is being very still, there’s just the one. From the sound of the pages being turned, he’d guess the person is sitting near his bed, there’s an underlying smell of coffee in the air and the hollow sound of a cup being set down.

"You can stop pretending, I know you’re awake." The voice is low and firm. Soft in volume, but with a distracted quality. When he opens his eyes he finds out it’s because his visitor is still reading, hasn’t even looked up from the book in their lap. So he takes the chance to study them.

His visitor is a male in his early thirties. The line of his shoulders and the hint of his height reminds him strongly of his mission, Steve. Except, this man’s hair is a shade too bright, cut too short, and far too messy. He doesn’t have Steve’s bulk either, being far more lean. He’s dressed in black fatigue pants and an unassuming grey shirt with a yellow triad symbol the winter soldier has never seen before. Can’t match up to any faction or organization he knows.

When the man finally closes his book and brings his gaze to meet his, he finds steel grey eyes, instead of blue, with dark bags under them, that give the man a raccoon like appearance. He looked every bit as tired with life as the winter soldier felt.

"Thirsty?" The man held up a water bottle and the winter soldier pursed his lips together into a thin line. The man seemed to understand. "Not poisoned." He said taking a long sip from the straw. He kept his lips closed and the man shrugged, putting the bottle back down on the side table. The man settled back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. Silence, except for the beep of the monitor fell over the room. The two just studied each other. The other man doesn’t seem to mind his silence, but he does break it first.

“Let’s get this over with.” His voice is rough, and a little nasal. Grey eyes bore into him. “A favor was called in for your…rehabilitation.” The Winter soldier snarls, lip curing to show teeth. The man doesn’t flinch, doesn’t do anything, except keep talking and watching. “I’m your guard, your safety is my priority. You can call me Recovery One.” Recovery One tilts his head at him. “Is there a name you would prefer?” The Winter Soldier manages a growl, Recovery One is unimpressed and replies in a mild tone. “Let me know when you think of something then.”

He leans over and presses a call-button. “Welcome to what’s left of Project Freelancer.”

 

The Counselor has a soft voice, it’s gentle and soothing to listen to. He’s disarming, and unassuming. Quiet. The winter soldier doesn’t trust him. Can’t trust him. Hasn’t trusted him since the day the man had walked into the medical room where he was and introduced himself. He pulls vague memories up out of the muddled mess of the Winter Soldier’s mind. Rips apart his programming in the most effective and efficient manner. Talks him through the uncertainty and the anger and the violence. Through the sadness and the fear and the horror. Despite this, or maybe in spite of it, the Winter Soldier finds more solace in Recovery One then the Counselor.

Recovery One doesn’t judge, doesn’t talk more then he needs to, doesn’t do anything but his job. And his job is to guard the Winter Soldier. He’s a rock, always there. Well almost always, he waits out the Counselor’s sessions in the hallway but enters the room as soon as the Counselor has left. If the Counselor and Recovery One say anything to each other, he doesn’t hear it.

Outside of that first day, Recovery One is never out of armor around the Winter Soldier, the armor is full body, colored grey with bright yellow accents. It makes him bigger and taller than he actually is. And heavier too, because Recovery One doesn’t sit down anymore, he’s always standing. There’s a helmet, but it’s a toss up if Recovery One wears it. Sometimes he does, and the Winter Soldier finds it unsettling, he can’t see Recovery One’s eyes, and he doesn’t know when it became important that he does. When Recovery One looks at him, it feels like he’s really seeing him, as a person and not as a tool, or assignment or patient. And he guesses that Recovery One understands that, because most of the time, Recovery One leaves the helmet on the bedside table and watches him with tired, determined eyes.

And sometimes Recovery One isn’t there at all and it’s a different armored and helmeted guard. Sometimes for a few hours, sometimes for a day or two. The Winter Soldier is even more on edge during these times. There is something about Recovery One that he finds himself trusting, the other guards fidget, and shift and twitch, where Recovery One would stand still. They slouch and lean against the wall, where Recovery One was always at attention and always at the ready. The Counselor says it’s because he believes Recovery One could stop him if it became necessary. The thing is, the Winter Soldier doesn’t just believe, he knows. It’s in the way Recovery One didn’t jerk in surprise when he got out of the soft shackles that first day. It’s in the way Recovery One went from leaning back in his chair to gun and combat knife at his throat, faster than even the Winter Soldier could blink. Recovery One is under no illusions about his threat level and respects it, respects him. So, yes, in a way, the Counselor is correct.

 

It’s a few months down the road and he’s been making _progress_ in his rehabilitation, as the Counselor calls it.(Not sure if he likes the word or not.) He’s still rather determinedly clinging to the faint scraps of his Winter Soldier programming. Because letting go means facing the truth, means facing what he’s become and the things he’s done and he’s pretty sure he’s not ready for it. There haven’t been any definite memories returned from before Zola. He remembers everything as the Winter Soldier and it feels like what happened before the Winter Soldier is just out of reach, behind a wall in his head. And he can’t breach that wall, is scared of it. He’s pretty much at an impasse, there’s nothing else they can do until he makes the next move. And he’s not sure he can. Until Recovery One happens.

The Counselor gives him two days before the next appointment. And he’s left alone with his thoughts and Recovery One for company. The first day is nothing new. Except Recovery One is wearing his helmet and that leaves the Winter Soldier in a disgruntled mood. He’s recently been allowed reading material, so he spends the day ignoring the orange vidplate reflecting himself back, and powers through most of his reading list. He remembers the book Recovery One had been reading on the first day. _I, Robot_. The Counselor had looked from the book to Recovery One and Recovery One had stared at a point just to the left of the Counselor’s shoulder.

It’s late in the evening. (His good behavior has gotten him a clock and not being shackled to the bed) And he’s thinking of the way the Counselor’s eyebrows had drawn together as he read the book’s title and how his eyes had flicked to Recovery One and how Recovery One had gone blanker than blank. He stares at the page of his own book without really reading the lines and contemplates how Recovery One leaves the room as soon as the counselor opens the door and returns, as soon as the Counselor leaves. It’s better to focus on the actions of those around him, then the storm in his own head. So he’s a little unprepared when Recovery One launches his own brand of ‘help’.(Recovery One practices tough love through an ambush approach. He’s not sure what hit him until after the fact.)

"Why are you stalling?" He starts and drops his book. Besides that first conversation, Recovery One hardly ever starts verbal interactions. So when he does speak, it means something important. He looks over at the armored figure, the light glints weirdly off the vidplate. "You heard me." Recovery One is not very indulgent either, something he likes about his guard. "Why are you stalling?"

"I’m not." Is all he can think to say.

"Yes, you are." Recovery One’s tone brooks no argument. He chooses not to answer and instead, leans over to pick up his book, trying to ignore the man. Recovery One suddenly makes a sound of understanding. "You’re scared." Is the simple reply and he freezes with an arm outstretched. Recovery One’s helmet tilts to the side.

"Am not." And he knows he’s acting like a child but he can’t help it. Recovery One just cut through all of his issues in less than a day and planted a flag right in the main one. The Counselor knew, but never outright said it and he’s never admitted it to himself either. To have it stated so plainly makes him feel stupid. The snort that comes through the voice filter tells him that Recovery One is very much aware of that. "Okay I am." He admits. And it stings because the Winter Soldier doesn’t admit to being scared, the Winter Soldier is never scared. But then he’s not just the winter soldier any more.

Recovery One nods and doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the night. Which is fine, because he has trouble sleeping that night. Dreams of falling and snow, dreams of hot summer days, with the sound of cars and a city, dreams of blond hair and bright blue eyes. Of summer in New York city in the 1940’s, of winter during the war. Of looking down a sniper scope, of storming down an alley before shipping out. Of the World’s Fair. Of waking up on a table with frightened blue eyes looking down. Of a train in the mountains and the icy splash of water. The finality of sinking down.

He wakes up, feels like his head’s been hit by a sledgehammer and has about five seconds to pry his eyes open to stare at the dimly lit ceiling, before seventy plus years of memories slam into his head. He screams, he can’t help it. Whatever mental block was there, is gone now and he’s got a tidal wave, a tsunami, a hurricane, rushing through his head. Bits of memory mix in his skull and the more emotion attached to them, the worse it is. Suddenly there’s a gloved hand on his arm, another one clutching at his collarbone, thumb digging into the dip under the bone. Firm, strong. They ground him. And a voice next to his ear.

“Breathe.” He takes that advice and the rest that follows. Issued in a calm, steady tone that brooked no disagreement. Orders he could follow, center himself on. “Nice and slow, breathe in.” A beat. “Now let it out.” Another beat. “In again. Good. Focus on me. Don’t worry about the rest.” He listens to the voice, it’s solid, reassuring, and it helps the chaos in his mind find some sort of order. “Let it out. Easy.” A few minutes of quiet breathing and talking go by, before he starts seeing what’s in front of him. Before he starts feeling like the memory return induced panic attack has been avoided. Recovery One is next to him. It’s his hands holding on to him, Recovery One is staring intently at him, and he reaches up to grab the armored shoulder. Grips it in a white knuckled fist. Feels the armor edge, dull, bite into his hand.

“You good?” Recovery One asks. And he can only breathe and nod, reflexively swallowing around a dry mouth. Recovery One lets go of his arm and hands him two small white pills and a paper cup filled with water, forcing him to release Recovery One’s shoulder. “Trust me.” Recovery One says, with a wry tone and bitter twist of the lips. “It’s better to sleep off the first half a memory dump.” For all that he knows very little about Recovery One, it sounds like he speaks from experience on the subject, so he follows the directions and takes the pills.

When he wakes up for the second time, it’s just him and Recovery One. The Counselor, Recovery One tells him, face blank, has decided to give him the day to calibrate to his new found memories. He distantly and thankfully notes that Recovery One is not wearing his helmet today and he wasn’t wearing it earlier this morning either. It still stares at him from the bedside table, but it’s not as bad when he can look up and see grey eyes watching him from across the room as well. Recovery One is quiet for the day, until the evening hours. He’s pretty sure there’s a pattern to what Recovery One does, a reason for why he’s closed off most of the day, but open for business at others. He’d assume the counselor was involved with it, except he’s got a pretty good hunch that Recovery One wants nothing more to do with the Counselor then he has to. So the odds of him coordinating with the Counselor on anything outside of basic security concerns is laughable at best.

This evening, he’s forgone the pretense at reading and is straight up staring at the bland white ceiling. He’s spent most of the day alternatively shying away from and diving into his returned memories, prodding at them like a sore tooth. At the end of the day he’s got a tangled ball of worry and heartsick and fear, with a nice small thread of anger weaving through everything else. Recovery One chooses this moment to abruptly pick up from yesterday. And Recovery One, he’s learned, is not in the habit of pulling his punches. Verbal or physical or emotional.

"You’re running scared." Recovery One’s voice is different without the filter from the helmet. Much less static crackle, easier on the ears. “Still running scared.” It’s nice that Recovery One has taken the events of the morning into account.

“I’m not exactly running anywhere.” He’d responded hoarsely, tucking his hand behind his head so no one would see the way it clenched into a fist. He stared at the off white ceiling and watched Recovery One in his peripheral vision. Recovery One stays still and silent, grey eyes trained on him, radiating how not amused with him he is and he, he cracks. He cracks so hard, he practically shatters to pieces. He needs to tell someone, and for some reason, he feels more stable around Recovery One.

Because Recovery One isn’t expecting anything from him. There’s no timetable, there’s no scratchpad of notes, there’s nothing, no pressure at all. Recovery One doesn’t really care if he tells him everything or nothing. And that makes all the difference. He knows he’s being recorded, he knows he’s being watched, he knows every conversation he has in this room is relayed directly to the Counselor and he doesn’t care. Surprisingly, he trusts Recovery One, he feels like Recovery One gets it, more so now, than before.

So to repay that trust, that understanding, he spills his miserable guts. All over the room. But mostly in Recovery One’s direction. It’s like a fifty two car pile up is coming out of his mouth, once he starts, he’s completely unable to stop himself.

He voices everything. Every reservation, every insecurity and he has a ton. But mostly he talks about Steve. About how it’s still hard to think of him in terms of best friend, brother in arms and not mission or target. About how he’s worried, he’s fucking terrified of what Steve will think of him now. He’s not the same person Steve knew, he doesn’t know how to get back to being that person, if he was ever that guy to begin with. He doesn’t think he could handle Steve’s reaction, doesn’t want to see him turn away. He keeps his gaze on the ceiling as he talks and he can see Recovery One, standing statue still, watching him, listening, in the corners of his eyes.

And when’s he’s done. Recovery One speaks.

“You’re an idiot.” Not exactly what he was expecting, he sits up and opens his mouth to protest, but Recovery One continues talking. “No one stays exactly the same their entire life. Everyone changes. Everyone. You, me, even your friend. We can’t help who we were in the past. We can’t take back what we did.” He gets the feeling that Recovery One isn’t just talking about just the Winter Soldier, about him, any more. And he knows that’s why he keeps gravitating back to Recovery One. Recovery One _understands_. About the things he’s done and trying to reconcile himself with that. Understands. In ways no one else has.

“What we can do,” Recovery One’s eyes pin him in place and he’s hanging on every word. “is move forward. You choose who you are now and make the best of it.” There’s silence as he turns the words over in his head, and then, Recovery One adds, as an afterthought. “I’m pretty damn sure your friend doesn’t care who you were or what you did. He seems to be pretty stuck on the present.” Recovery One’s mouth turns into a grimace. “He’s been fully debriefed on every aspect concerning you, in detail. Hell, _I’ve_ even had to play twenty questions with him, and he’s _still_ camping outside the door.” He has to grin at the underlying tone of annoyance in Recovery One’s voice.

“He always was stubborn.” He says fondly. Recovery One grumbles.

“Be nice not to trip over him every time I have to leave.” He does laugh at that, and it’s a release. Recovery One doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the night. And that’s fine with him. He’s got enough to think over. He spends the whole next day, doing just that and at the end of it, he thinks he’s made some peace with himself. He can’t go back to being the Bucky from the 1950’s, he can’t forget and erase everything he did as the Winter Soldier either, but he can pick up the pieces of both and make a new identity for himself.

 

Bucky’s appointments resume. At the end of the first one since his memory came roaring back, the Counselor announces the following appointment will take place in his office. On the other side of the complex. It’s the first time he’s been out of his room(since it’s too nice to be a cell, even though that’s exactly what it is) since he woke up there.

Recovery One escorts him through the complex, and when Bucky’s first out of confinement appointment is finished, Recovery One is waiting for him outside. Bucky’s found the downside to this type of freedom, is that Recovery One wears his helmet in the halls and therefore, wears his helmet more. It doesn’t bother him as much as it used to, but it’s still annoying, not being able to tell what the other man is looking at. The two walk down the brightly lit hallways, walls and floor concrete and a dull grey. They pass by a few guards, and Bucky makes note that none salute or nod or make any indication that Recovery One is there at all and Recovery One doesn’t make any move back either. Bucky idly marks where the cameras are as they turn down the corridors.

"Be careful." Recovery One says, out of nowhere, Bucky doesn’t falter in his steps. Recovery One is still facing forward, outwardly there’s no indication that he said anything and Recovery One doesn’t say anything else until they’re right outside Bucky’s room.

"I don’t trust him." Bucky tells Recovery One, voice quiet in the hall. It seems like the thing to say at the time.  "Never have." He feels the need to add. Recovery One nods once and unlocks the door, waving him in.

"Good." Recovery One says, as he closes the door and locks it. It seems that he also now gets time to sleep without supervision too. But Bucky hears the word all the same.

"You don’t trust him either." He follows Recovery One’s lead and his mouth barely moves. They’re on their way to his second appointment. He’s watching Recovery One closely but doesn’t see any outward reaction from the man. Nothing said until they’re in the Counselor’s hallway.

"I don’t trust anyone here." That’s not really a surprise for Bucky, he’s suspected as much. Figures that’s another reason he got attached to Recovery One. Recovery One is suspicious of everyone here. And Bucky is as well. Enemy of my enemy is my friend. Recovery One opens the door to the Counselor’s office and The Counselor is standing up and Bucky is walking in. He wonders what the Counselor did to Recovery One. As he passes Recovery One, "Least of all him." is said in such a low whisper he’s not sure he heard it at all, and then the door is closed for the next forty five minutes.

When it opens again, Recovery One is in the same spot out in the hallway he was yesterday. And they walk back together the same way, but Recovery One doesn’t say anything this time and neither does Bucky. He thinks instead. He’s still thinking when Recovery One unlocks his room and locks him back in.

Bucky thinks about the fact that Recovery One always, always looks tired. That Recovery One always marks where the cameras are too. His eyes always flick to the exits when other agents, agents he should be used to working with, enter the room they’re in. He thinks about the fact that Recovery One always moves subtly to put himself between other agents, other workers, other unknowns and him. Puts his back to him. Considers him the lesser threat. Your safety is my priority. He thinks about all the things Recovery One has said to him and he reads between the lines. Both verbal and physical. Comes to a decision.

He remembers Steve talking about having faith in others, a vague memory of handing Steve a rag to press against a bleeding lip and the muffled words coming from around the cloth. _I have faith in people, I have faith in you_ _._ Steve isn’t here now, it’s just him. He doesn’t trust the Counselor. He does trust Recovery One. He trusts that Recovery One is just as much on edge here as he is. He trusts that Recovery One doesn’t belong to Freelancer.

He waits, watches Recovery One, double checks his guess, until he’s sure. Progress continues to be made. He’s given the all clear to exercise, under Recovery One’s supervision of course. So twice a day he’s taken down to the sprawling gym and allowed to pick his activity.

He’s starting to get some even ground in his head, he’s figured out a starting point and now the appointments are less about breaking programming and more about handling his memories.

Throughout it all, Recovery One remains a constant presence, there are still the intermittent guard changes and Bucky hasn’t yet broached the question of where it is Recovery One goes when he’s not there. But he doesn’t miss the way Recovery One is always the most vigilant, the most focused when walking him to the Counselor and in the hallway immediately after leaving the office. Recovery One really doesn’t like the Counselor.

Allies are in short supply around here, but he’s reasonably sure about Recovery One by now. So a month into his ‘rehabilitation’, he mummers to Recovery One on the way to his latest appointment with the Counselor.

"I prefer Bucky." Recovery One doesn’t react. Bucky is not disappointed though.

"I prefer Washington." Is returned around the door as Washington locks him in for the night. “Agent Washington.”

 

“First name: Agent, last name: Washington? Really?” He asks in the corridor the next day. There’s an amused snort from Agent Washington.

“Something like that.”

“So what’s your real name?” Bucky pushes, because he kind of wants to know.

“That is my real name.” And even though the tone doesn’t warn Bucky off, he drops the subject. There are names you’re given after all and names you can choose. And Washington, for whatever reason, prefers that name best.

 

On the outside nothing has changed. Recovery One is his silent sentinel. But Agent Washington and him have picked up a variety of ways to communicate. Bucky follows his lead on when to speak out loud. he finds that Washington has a very sarcastic, very dry sense of humor. That he doesn’t mind his name being shortened to Wash, likes it even. And Bucky has never seen anyone show quite the same level of exasperation as Washington does, when one of the other guards messes up. It’s almost a full body eye roll, point of fact though, Bucky has yet to see Washington actually do an eye roll. Even though his entire demeanor suggests that he rolls his eyes constantly. But even though they’re on almost friendly terms, he knows Washington respects the fact that Bucky’s own threat level hasn’t changed. Washington watches him as closes as he watches everything else.

It takes Bucky awhile, especially with the armor, but he starts to read Washington’s body language. And Washington likes giving him clues. He learns from twitches of the fingers, from the tilt of his head, from the shift of Washington’s body, who’s a real threat and who Washington is just paranoid about. And Wash is paranoid about a lot of things. It makes him feel safer in a way, because he’s Washington’s mission. And Washington has a single-minded focus that is just a tad bit shy of how Bucky used to run as the Winter Soldier. He’s reasonably certain that, of all the people on the base, Agent Washington is the one that’s focused the most, that _cares_ the most about him.

 

About six months after Bucky woke up in Freelancer, he’s slowly starting to realize that Washington, shares something in common with him. Besides being soldiers and having a guard/prisoner relationship. (Or whatever they have right now. He’d say camaraderie, but he’s not sure you can really call it that.) Something more along the lines of dealing with having a fucked over mind. It’s only a glimpse, a little bit of advice that carries a little more weight.

It’s after a particularly distressing session with the Counselor, and his head is full of snow and blood and the sound of wind whistling past his ears. It was a difficult session, like the Counselor wanted to push at him, which is probably the truth. Having him go over and over the memory of his “death” and then going over some of his more bloody missions. He’s starting to get a bad feeling about the Counselor, worse then just not trusting the man. So Bucky’s pacing the gym, trying to pick something to work the memories into silence when Washington speaks up.

"I’d suggest the treadmill." Bucky looks over at him, stopping in front of the row of machines. Washington’s helmet is on and Bucky can’t tell if he’s looking at him or not. "Whenever I had a difficult appointment with the Counselor, I always hit the treadmill or the track." Wash elaborates.

"What did you have to go to the Counselor for?" Bucky asks because he can’t really picture a guy as solid as Washington needing the Counselor. But then he thinks of how tired Wash looks, how aware he is of his space and feels like an idiot for asking. Washington just shrugs. And offers ‘yearly appointments’ as a very flimsy excuse. He remembers Wash talking him through the initial return of his memories and the aftermath. Remembers firm gloved hands grounding him in the present and his voice giving directions that worked, as though Wash knew what was happening, what it felt like, _personally_. ‘Yearly appointments’ his ass. “Did it work?” Bucky nods to the treadmills. Not quite ready to push Washington.

"No. But it helped." Good enough for him, he runs until he’s drenched in sweat, out of breath. And, of course,  Washington was right, it didn’t work, but it did help.

 

"If you play your cards right." Wash says one night, eyes practically burning a hole through Bucky’s right shoulder as they walk. "They’ll let you have a visitor." He doesn’t ask how Washington knows this, when he’s pretty sure that if the Counselor wanted him to know, he would have told Bucky himself at this point. Washington doesn’t like the Counselor, but Bucky is reasonably sure Wash likes him, looks out for him. So he nods, once, and gets to work playing his cards right.

It’s a two months of intensive therapy, psychoanalytic sessions, cocktails of drugs and Agent Washington walking just a step ahead of him or a step behind him, steel grey eyes always on him. But he’s finally cleared to meet with Steve. An hour to start with, he’s told. And then depending on him, the next one could be longer or shorter.

It’s nerves, he tells himself, just nerves. They’re in the locker room(another perk of playing his cards right) and Bucky is more or less watching Washington watch him fiddle with the things in his locker. (He doesn’t have much, but he’s seen the inside of Wash’s locker. He has even less, except for a photo of what looks like a squad of similarly armored soldiers. Washington had closed the locker before Bucky could get a good look at it, but he did see the armor colors ranged between the red and blue sides of the color wheel.) It’s nerves that make him blurt out the question he’s been dying to ask, since the moment he opened his eyes and saw the stoic, tired soldier sitting at his bedside and only reinforced a dozen times since.

"Why you?" Wash shrugs. He doesn’t ask Bucky to clarify, he knows what he meant.

"I guess you could say someone has a sense of humor. Or thought I could help." At Bucky’s look of confusion Washington decides to not be the enigmatic shit he has been, or at least not completely, and actually answers him. "I was the one who tracked you down and brought you in.” That’s not a big surprise, Wash was first introduced to him as Recovery One after all. Be weird to have a tag like that and not recover anything. “You barely remembered who you were and I used to have that same problem. Except I had too many memories to pick from and you had too few.” Wash shakes his head and closes the locker door now that Bucky had stopped messing with the towels folded inside. “Come on, let’s get you to your date.”

"It’s not a date." Bucky protests on automatic. He files the information Washington gave him away for later. But inwardly gives himself a pat on the back for correct intuition.

"Sure it’s not." He really, really wants to ask if Washington’s memory problems had anything to do with the metal port Bucky had seen set into the back of his neck. Bucky had only seen it once or twice, the few times Wash had been without a helmet and with his back to Bucky, but it was incredibly conspicuous. The size of a quarter, sitting right at the base of Washington’s skull, where his spinal column started. But Bucky bites his tongue, and lets Wash lead him to the visitor’s room and then he’s too preoccupied to think about it again.

 

"He kept looking at my arm." Bucky opens with when he gets back and it’s just him and Washington again. He amends to "lack of arm." and then to “trying not to look at my lack of an arm. Jeez.” At the blond eyebrow that raises and raising. "It was weird, I mean, I get it. But…" He trails off and Washington, honest to God, rolls his eyes at him.

"I’m sure you’ll be able to wrap your head around it." His voice is dry. "Lights out, let’s go."

“You were right though.” Bucky says, because he feels he has to, before entering his room. “It didn’t matter to him. None of it did.”

 

The Counselor is pleased with Steve’s visit, pleased with Bucky’s reaction and continued progress. Schedules more visits, longer ones and makes marks on forms. Things are moving forward, Bucky can feel it. Agent Washington is gone, more and more often.

“He thinks you’re getting too attached.” Wash tells him on the walk to his latest appointment. Well, that’s true, in a way. In another way, the Counselor is dead wrong. Bucky is already extremely attached to Washington, he’s kind of invested, even. For one: Agent Washington sees him, as him. As he is now, not who he was or could be, but the individual currently occupying his skin, Washington helped when no one else could, Bucky feels he owes the agent for that. For the other: it helps to have something besides his own mess to focus on, during the times he’s not face to face with the Counselor. And Agent Washington is such a ready distraction. For all that they’re on a somewhat friendly field with each other, he still doesn’t know that much about him. So, he focuses on that.

 

“What did the Counselor do?” He asks rather nonchalantly, crossing his legs over each other on his bed. It’s one of the increasingly rare times that Agent Washington is left alone with him, and his progress had continued to the point that audio surveillance was deemed ‘no longer necessary’. An opportunity that Bucky wasn’t going to waste. Washington gives him a slow blink. “I mean, I know why I don’t trust him, why don’t you?”

“You’re curious. That’s good.” Bucky would roll his eyes, if he wasn’t as paranoid as Washington sounded on his good days. (personally he didn’t think he’d ever get to the level of paranoid that Washington functioned at.)

“You gonna answer or just stare at me?” He knows that Washington can and is perfectly willing to just stare at him, all day if need be, to avoid answering a question. But the other man must be feeling charitable today. Or chatty. Whichever.

“I was on a team, best of the best.” Wash’s voice turns bitterly sarcastic when says that phrase. Snapping back to normal in the next breath. “And the Counselor was helping oversee us.” He gets a distant look, looking through Bucky instead of at him. “Long story short, the team fell apart. In a spectacular way.” He shakes himself, just a twitch of his shoulders really, and focuses back in on Bucky. “Agents died. My friends. Died. And come to find out, the Counselor wasn’t trying to keep the team together, he helped rip it apart.” Washington is as steady as he always is. Even vaguely discussing the man responsible for his teammates’ deaths. “So I don’t trust the Counselor anymore. He’s aware of that.” Story time over. Bucky notes the use of ‘it’ and ‘the team’, rather than ‘us’.

And maybe that’s why he was drawn to Washington in the beginning. Because Washington looked tired, but moved like he was anything but. He was alert, awake and aware. Even if you were running on just the mission, you wouldn’t be like that. Bucky knows from experience. Washington moves with purpose, Washington moves with energy and life, no matter the size of the bags under his eyes. Whatever had happened to him, whatever went down when his team fell apart, he survived it. Not just survived, but came out the other side, in one, stronger, piece. Definitely more paranoid and aware of the people around him, but having accepted the bad and moved on with his life.

Bucky envies that. No matter what he seems to do, bits of his past life, during, before and after the war, as the Winter Soldier, as Steve’s Bucky, keep popping up and dragging him down. He had his memories back and instead of being any sort of help whatsoever, they’ve decided to just continually trip him up. Especially whenever he thinks he’s got a solid grasp on them.

 

“How do you do it?” He breaks down maybe two days later. Looking in the mirror after getting his hair cut shorter had sprung another resurgence of memory. One that left him vomiting everything he’d eaten that day into the toilet. Washington is in full armor this time, standing just inside the doorway, and even if it doesn’t set Bucky on edge like it used to, it still rubs him the wrong way. “How do you fucking deal with this?” It’s a rhetorical question. But Washington has this annoying habit of treating actual questions like rhetorical ones, so Bucky isn’t sure why he thought the agent would leave this one alone. Wash tugs his helmet off and sets it on the counter.

“Do the best that you can.” Bucky growls at the response and then immediately has to hunch back over the toilet again. Agent Washington continues as though he hadn’t stopped, when Bucky sits back. “It’s hard, the first couple of months. Random things keep becoming triggers you didn’t know you had. Find a memory you know is your’s, preferably one that you like. And focus on that one when it gets bad.” He gives Bucky a cup of water, and Bucky sits back with a thump. Sipping at the water and grimacing. Washington is still looking down at him, assessing him. Bucky makes a face back and Wash nods, as though he’s come to a conclusion.

“You’ll be fine.” Like he’s stating a fact, the sky is blue, the sun is warm, and Bucky Barnes will be fine. Bucky finds it strangely reassuring. “I was. Took a bit of time, but I’m fine now. You will be too.” It’s probably the nicest thing anyone who isn’t Steve has said to him. He allows himself to believe that maybe, just possibly, he really will be fine, be okay, given time.

And then, Agent Washington is gone for a whole month.

Bucky deals. He does fine, until he hits a bad patch. Memories clashing in his head, making everything a muddled mess. His appointments with the Counselor don’t seem to be working. In fact, if Bucky didn’t know better, he would say the Counselor was pushing him to break down.(He reminds himself that he doesn’t know better, which means the Counselor is probably doing just that. Why, he has no idea.) He only has limited success with the advice Wash gave him, struggles through the fourth week on his own, silence like a vacuum, with changing guards, sullen meetings with the Counselor and a few somewhat disastrous visits with Steve. He never actually got to yelling, but there were a few moments. Very tense moments. He’s stressed and upset and paranoid and nothing seems to be working.

 

On Friday morning, precisely at four in the morning in fact, he wakes up to Agent Washington sitting next to his bed, wearing black fatigues and reading a book. Bucky checks the title as he scrambles upright. I, Robot, of course. He almost has to double check to make sure he isn’t in some sort of time loop. (Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing) Except the shirt Washington is wearing is different.

“This isn’t a sanctioned visit.” Wash says, a flick of the eyes over the top of the book.

“Yeah I figured, since you weren’t in uniform.” Bucky can’t help the feeling of relief at seeing Washington. “Since when do you wear blue?” Because he’s only ever seen Washington in grey, in and out of armor, and the shirt is a dull sky blue with yellow shoulder stripes. The outline of a bird with crossed swords takes the place of the triage symbol Bucky has learned is Project Freelancer’s insignia. He can’t help but feel it’s something significant, that Washington isn’t wearing the freelancer insignia.

“Since before I met you.” Wash replies without missing a beat, he flips a page, his attention looking to be fully on the book. Bucky knows better by now.

“Right, so, why are you here?” Wash hums, eyes skating over a line of text. “I know you’ve probably read that fucking book ten times over before today, so spill.”

“I’ve been told my service is no longer needed in Project Freelancer.” Bucky stills. Completely. Inside though he feels an immense amount of relief. He knew he wasn’t wrong about Wash. There’s a charge in the room. Something’s happening. All the tension that’s been building up between the Counselor and Agent Washington over the months, something’s gotta give. And it’s giving now. Wash continues talking. “Which, to be honest, we all saw coming. The Counselor and I don’t see eye to eye and he never really wanted me here anyway.” Washington closes the book and rests it on his knee. “Your safety is my priority.” He says, focused completely on Bucky with laser precision. “It’s no longer safe for you here.” Bucky understands. Washington knows what the Counselor’s game is, knows what’s going on better then him, knows where this is headed and is getting him out as quickly as possible.

And he wants out, really, really badly. The last few sessions with the Counselor had started taking a decidedly twisted turn, dredging up very specific missions for very specific details. And the past couple weeks had only reinforced that, without Washington watching his back, he’s on his own here. He sits up and rests his arm on his knees.

“What happens now?” Washington lets out a breath through his nose and cants his head. Grey eyes regard him, blink a few times.

“How are you?” He asks instead of answering. At the incredulous look Bucky gives him, he just raises his eyebrows back.

Washington isn’t really asking after his mental health, he’s asking if Bucky thought he was ready. Ready to leave Freelancer and go back into the world. If he was stable enough for that. On some level it was terrifying. Freelancer offered a measure of security, that should he relapse or old conditioning suddenly come up(even though the Counselor assured him there wasn’t any left, but like hell he’d trust that), he was in a secure facility that wouldn’t allow him to hurt others or himself. Freelancer trained agents to deal with people like him.

But Washington was giving him the option to leave. To decide for himself if he was ready. Bucky trusted Washington’s judgement, knows the agent wouldn’t have even brought this up if he didn’t think Bucky was ready.

“I think…I could do it.” Bucky says, slowly. Feeling the words out. Once he makes this choice, he can’t take it back. “I’m, I’m ready.” He says it with much more conviction and knows it to be true. He is ready. Freelancer isn’t safe anymore, he doesn’t know what’s coming next, but he’s pretty sure he wants to be as far away from here as he can be.

Washington grins at him. It’s not until that moment that he realizes that he’s never seen Wash smile. The grin is more a showing of teeth and hard manic glee then actual mirth and happiness. But it fits Agent Washington much better than any smile. Bucky finds himself grinning back. Washington abruptly leans over and rummages under his chair, comes up with a nondescript black and grey backpack, which he tosses at Bucky.

“Change of clothes. Put those on, don’t take anything from the room.” Bucky nodded, already unzipping the bag, dressing with one hand was a hassle, but one he’d learned to live with. Washington was on his feet and out the door, coming back just as Bucky struggled with the heavy sweatshirt. It should have made him feel embarrassed or humiliated, when Wash tugged the material down over his head into place. It doesn’t, it continues not to as Washington pins the empty sleeve into place and smacks him on the opposite shoulder, shoving a combat knife for him to take up the sleeve of his right hand.

Agent Washington has seen him through his worst and his good enough. (He’s never seen Bucky at his best, hell Bucky, has never seen Bucky at his best. Yet.) Wash grins at him again regardless and Bucky finds himself again, grinning back.

“Ready to go?”

“Yes.”

 

Washington gets them out of Freelancer with minimal casualties and violence. Meaning Wash only had to shoot about three people, mostly in the kneecaps and then they were out. Bucky did get to knife one agent whose timing was horrible before Washington happened to the agent. He counts that as a plus.

“Why aren’t you wearing the armor?” They’re safely out a side door and moving through the trees that surround the complex.

“Counselor expects that if I infiltrate, it’ll be through the front door and in full gear.” Bucky follows the dull blue of Washington’s collar through the woods. Over the treeline, there’s a faint trace of dawn light. Wash had put on a dark jacket before they left the cell. Bucky’s walking close enough that he could reach out and grab the back of it, if he wasn’t holding the knife in his one hand. “And your drop off point is in civilian territory. Not any place I can wear the armor.”

There’s a black car hidden off a path, far enough away from the facility that it doesn’t attract any attention. It’s not any make or model that Bucky recognizes but then, he had been on ice for a while and isolated in Freelancer headquarters, so what does he know about modern vehicles? Washington swings himself into the driver seat and Bucky follows suit.

“Shotgun.” Washington says in a completely serious tone, it throws Bucky for a loop. Was he supposed to have a shotgun, was there one under the seat?

“What?” The engine rumbles and they start backing up.

“If you want that seat, you have to call shotgun.” Wash carefully maneuvers the car around and then guns it. Bucky finds himself gripping the edge of the seat to keep himself balanced, Wash is a good driver, but the road is backwoods with plenty of twists and turns and bumps.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He replies and Wash, honest to god, smirks at him.

“Look up calling ‘dibs’ too, very important.” Wash faces front, but he’s still smirking. Bucky files that information away. (Several weeks later he gets the immense pleasure of throwing Tony for a loop with his sudden and inexplicable knowledge.)

The drop off is a coffee place, three hours away from the Freelancer facility. The ride itself was spent mostly in quiet, Washington not really talking and Bucky not really wanting to. They don’t stop for gas. Bucky gets out of the car after Washington, and immediately spots a head of blond hair sitting at one of the tables, bent over a sketch book. Steve. Bucky swallows, their last meeting hadn’t gone so well, and he knows he’ll be forgiven for the angry outbursts but it still stings.

Washington weaves through the clutter of tables and people. Steve isn’t paying attention and hell that grates Bucky, as he follows Wash through the shop. There’s any number of people who would love to take down Captain America and here Steve was. Not even noticing Washington bearing down on him. His fingers twitched and for a split second, he’s worried he made the wrong choice. But then Washington is standing next to Steve’s table and rapping his knuckles against the surface and Steve is looking up at the Agent with such a look of annoyance that Bucky has to stifle a laugh. He hasn’t noticed Bucky, all his attention is on Washington.

“Recovery One.” That is Steve’s extremely polite voice, the one he uses for people he dislikes but is forced to work with anyway. Bucky wonders what Agent Washington did. Realizes that Steve had called Wash ‘Recovery One’, and remembers that Washington’s general personality ran toward ‘sarcastic asshole’, so there were probably numerous things. Washington drops a manilla folder on Steve’s sketchpad.

“Brought you a present.” He says as Steve flipped open the folder and frowned at the contents. Bucky knows what’s in the file, Washington had him read it during the ride. It’s a list of doctors qualified to take over for the Counselor and their credentials, Bucky already has his preference picked out. It’s highlighted in blue.

“It’s a list.” Steve continues to frown at the contents of the file. “Of psychologists and psychiatrists in the greater New York area?”

“My favorite is this one.” Bucky leans over to tap the paper where the blue highlighted name is. “Bucky?! What are, when did-” He stops himself short, that’s when Steve catches on and he catches on quick. “What happened.” It’s a short statement, quick and to the point, not a question, a demand.

“The Counselor’s been looking for a way to keep Freelancer relevant.” Bucky takes the empty chair across from Steve, steals his muffin while the other’s attention is on Wash. “I thought it would be a pretty awesome idea if he had as little time with the sergeant as possible.” Bucky, with his mouth full, watches as Steve narrows his eyes at Washington.

“And you made that call.” And that’s the voice Steve uses when someone is in Big Trouble. He tries to finish chewing as fast a possible but Washington is, as always, at least one step ahead of him.

“Things haven’t been going so great with the last few visitation sessions, have they?” Bucky coughs and sprays crumbs over the table. Steve practically starts vibrating with tension in his seat. “And all the fights are over things that afterward are really goddamn stupid aren’t they? Things you wouldn’t fight over normally, and in retrospect, still wouldn’t. Funny how it’s always Bucky starting them too, huh?” Washington’s face is a blank wall and Bucky is still hacking half a lung up. Steve pushes his glass of water to him without breaking eye contact with Washington.

“What are you saying?”

“You’ve been writing it off as a side effect therapy. And it is. Just not the therapy you think it is.” Washington leans back on his heels, keeps Steve’s gaze. “What would happen if he broke down in the middle of treatment? Freelancer is the best place to keep him if treatment proved ineffective…” Washington trailed off and raised his eyebrows. Bucky had managed to clear his airway enough to mutter.

“Son of a bitch.” He breathed as Steve goes still in a way that means someone is going to get supremely hurt.

“The Counselor may be a manipulative bastard, but he was the best choice for the job. At the time anyway.” Washington says, by way of explanation. “And I have a bit of experience with how he operates, so I knew what to look out for.” That isn’t enough for Steve. Shouldn’t be enough for Bucky, but it is. He put all his faith and trust in Washington, and Washington didn’t let him down.

“Why though, why help? You don’t know us.” It’s the closest to flat out asking what Washington’s game is, without actually doing it, anyone has come yet.(Bucky knew the counselor wanted to ask, but never had, at least not where Bucky could overhear) Steve is the one who asks, but it’s the question that Bucky has had in the back of his mind since Wash forced him on the recovery path. (And the answer he’s the most afraid of.) Washington shrugs.

“A friend of your’s offered a favor, if I could help. And I could, so I did.” The smile that Washington gives them is similar to the teeth baring grin he’d given Bucky, right before breaking him out. Vicious and bloodthirsty and ready to fight. “Fucking over Freelancer though, I’d do that for free.”

 

Wash leaves not even a minute later, rushed and harried looking. His phone had chirped with a message, and the face he makes at whatever he reads, Bucky will treasure for the rest of his life. (He never does tell them what friend of Steve’s asked for his help.)

“Emergency situation, I have to go.” He snapped, thumb already tapping out a response. “I’d get back to New York as fast as you can.” He throws over his shoulder as he books it out of the shop. (Leaves the car where it is, and Bucky pretends not feel a slight pain as the dark jacket and blond hair disappear around the corner.)

Washington doesn’t need to warn Steve twice. They’re on transport and back to the city so quickly, it makes Bucky’s head spin. He doesn’t even get time to finish the muffin he so rightfully stole. And then they’re back in New York and Tony Stark looks and talks like his old man but with an edge Howard never had. (Bucky approves. Likes Tony more than he’d ever liked Howard) He’d commandeered Bucky’s arm from SHIELD and upgraded it. Tells Bucky everything about the arm as he hooks it up. But Bucky just lets the words roll through his head. Knows he should keep track of it, no one’s ever spent the time to tell him about the specifics of the artificial limb before. But he’s fairly certain that Tony would be just as happy to repeat everything about it in greater detail if asked. He starts with his new therapist the next week. He likes her much better then the Counselor.

He settles in pretty well with Steve, recalls Sam from bits and pieces of trying to kill him. Sam doesn’t seem to hold a grudge. Learns how to cook, runs with Steve and Sam in the mornings. (Really more like runs with Steve while they laps Sam as much as possible.) There’s a few tense moments with Natasha. She’s decided the best way to be re-acquainted is to break into his room in the middle of the night and see how long it takes him to wake up. (Basically the second she opens the window.) She does this three times before he starts seeing her at the breakfast table when they come back from their run. He figures that means he checks out in her book.

Tony and Steve tell him about Bruce because the man himself is off in the wind, though apparently checks in with Tony. Thor is equally unreachable for the most part and Bucky has to rely on pictures and Steve to learn about him.

He meets Natasha’s co worker? friend? guy she feels affection for? once. Natasha introduces him as an actual human disaster, Hawkeye,and a fellow Avenger, he introduces himself as Clint. Shakes his hand in a firm grip, grins at him. And then says something to Natasha that has her smacking him upside the head and follows her out of the apartment whining and apologizing the entire way. Bucky doesn’t really ask about him outside of learning that the man’s a sniper like him(a good chance that Clint’s a better one.) and Natasha favors him as much as she’s probably favored anyone.(Steve doesn’t count.)

Bucky doesn’t hear anything else from or about Freelancer. He suspects Steve of making sure that nothing about the project reaches his ears. Not that he cares much about Freelancer anyway, the only thing left that he wants to know is: who put Agent Washington on him to begin with? Someone had to, Wash had flat out told him his interference was due to someone else bringing him in. But there’s no one to ask. Agent Washington is out of his life as suddenly and completely as he came in.

Except he gets a ‘wish you were here’ postcard, a week after his appointments with his new therapist start. It’s a surprise, lying on his bed when he gets back from the morning run, he doesn’t know anyone who would bother without going through Steve or Natasha first. The picture on the front is from Seattle, Washington, Bucky knows this, because the brilliant yellow script lettering over the lower half of the skyline, quite literally, spell it out for him. He doesn’t miss the implication.(He’s not sure if Steve or Natasha ever knew Washington as anything but Recovery One.) There’s nothing on the back, but a phone number, and his current address, written with neat precise letters in steel grey ink. He sticks it in the back of a drawer.

He adds the phone number to his cellphone. In the A section, as ‘Agent Washington’. He never calls the number and the number never calls him. But when things get bad, he sends a text. He always gets a response, be it a few minutes to an hour later. It’s a lifeline, a last resort. If Steve can’t help or is away, if it feels like the walls are closing in or the cold is creeping up his limbs. He sends out a text and gets one back. This system doesn’t solve his problems, doesn’t magic everything back to okay, but it makes him feel less alone. Less like he’s the only one with these problems. So it’s not a fix all, but it helps. And in the end, isn’t that what mattered?

 

_“Hawkeye, I don’t want to get anywhere near anything with Project Freelancer in the name.”_

_“Look at it as a chance to make a new friend.”_

_“I already have new friends.”_

_“You need more friends.”_

_“I’m going to take this moment to point out that I had a lot of friends once and most of those friends betrayed, backstabbed or died on me, so I think I’m okay with what I have now.”_

_“You’d be helping a national icon.”_

_“Technically I’d be helping a national icon’s friend. And don’t do that sing song voice. It’s creepy.”_

_“You’d be helping me help my friend’s friend.”_

_“No.”_

_“David.”_

_“Clint.”_

_“Please?”_

_“Give me one good reason. A real one.”_

_“I don’t trust Freelancer any more than you do. But you know what to look for and I don’t. You know how Freelancer operates. This guy. He’s important Wash, really important. I don’t trust Freelancer with him, but the counselor is the only one with the experience to help him. And you’re the only one with Freelancer experience. So, please?”_

_“…fine. But you owe me **big** for this.”_

_“Deal.”_


End file.
